


A Metric Shit Ton of Tequila

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:04:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes got trashed at Molly Hooper's engagement party, and he's trying to figure out what the consequences are so that he can deal with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would apologize, but I am enjoying this way too much.

*********

Mycroft woke up with a sneaking suspicion that he had done something terrible the night before, under the influence of what he winced to recall was a metric shit ton of tequila.

Finding out that Greg had gone to work at 5:34 AM didn’t ease his worry at all.

“Tell me what happened,” he texted, daring his stomach to object to a bowl of oatmeal. His stomach didn’t trifle with him, but Greg didn’t return his text. Twenty-three minutes later, Mycroft was battling a persistent headache with paracetamol and a glass of water and texting Anthea, who could be trusted with things of a personal nature.

“I have a hangover. Find out why. Prepared to offer two week holiday. -M”

He had half a memory of his brother declaring that four inch heels weren’t difficult to dance in and that he was prepared to prove it. That was it, but it was more than enough.

“Five hundred pounds if you tell me what happened last night with no comments. -M”

And if Sherlock didn’t answer that text, then Mycroft would retreat to a flat unknown to Greg before he began making apologies. As an afterthought, he sent the same text to John, who would be more likely to answer and less likely to demand the ransom.

“Damn Miss Hooper for getting engaged, anyway,” he muttered, forcing himself to finish the glass of water. As his gaze drifted, he caught sight of the crossword in the Daily Mail (the crossword and gossip on his brother being the only reason he subscribed) and began to fill it in mentally. It was proof to his state that Anthea’s text took him completely by surprise.

“Sir, you promised me two weeks’ holiday if I withheld comment. Reminder that I drove you home. Sober you care to up the stakes? -A”

He was hungover, not a pushover. Mycroft scrolled through his texts, determined to check the veracity of her statement. Sure enough, he had offered her two weeks to hide any and all information regarding his state of intoxication and any actions taken due to that state, in appalling grammar.

Mycroft paused for a moment, a spoonful of oatmeal in the air. Could he spare Anthea for longer than two weeks?

“Three weeks if you tell me if Greg is in any way emotionally, psychologically, or spiritually affected by my actions. -M”

“On it. -A”

*********


	2. Chapter 2

*********

Anthea received a text at 1:37 AM from her boss’s phone, jolting awake and prepared for Armageddon. She was confronted with a string of almost words that she tried to decipher, taking it for code, before Greg texted again from his own phone with slightly more clarity.

“Done 4 nigt cant drive. Pickus up at bar plesa. -G”

A little digging through her memos placed them at Bar Social in Clapham, celebrating the engagement of Molly Hooper (further notes: Sherlock, morgue, DONT MENTION CATS) to Julien Bardon (further notes: good nose, disappointing arse). In between brushing her teeth and cursing out her ankle holster, she managed to memorise the route and text back an ETA of ten minutes.

“Keys, where the hell are my keys,” she muttered, scanning her desk, coffee table, kitchen counters, and entry table, but coming up empty. Her dresser and vanity proved likewise unhelpful, and she finally gave it up as hopeless and went to break into and hotwire her own damn car.

Forty-seven seconds of blaring alarms and Turkish cursing later, Anthea was on her way and her neighbours were probably calling the police.

“And I chipped a goddamned nail,” she muttered, steering with her knee as she tried to get her lipstick applied. It wasn’t necessary, especially not if her boss was drunk enough to be allowing Greg to text her, but Anthea had standards.

Bar Social was dark when she arrived and texted Greg, but the door opened half a second later to reveal her boss, leaning heavily on Greg, looking thoroughly displeased about something. She killed the engine and rushed to open the door without seeming to rush--a skill she’d taken sixteen months even under Mycroft Holmes’ tutelage to master.

But now that she had, of course, she used it at every opportunity, especially when a queue began to form outside the loo in clubs.

“Two weeks’ holiday, Anthea, if you don’t say a word about this ever,” her boss snarled, having trouble untangling himself from Greg. He finally broke free and climbed into the back seat, barking out, “You had your chance!” when Greg tried to help him and ended up grabbing his arse.

It was a fairly uneventful drive back to the boss’s flat, and Anthea waited in silence until Greg had managed to coax him inside, waving at Anthea before he shut the door. 

Two weeks’ holiday. But would he remember? And if she had to remind him, would that constitute saying a word about it and therefore break her end of the deal?

“You are the devil,” she whispered, and discreetly made a rude gesture at her boss’s door before getting back into the car.

So when she received his text the next morning, after a nap, workout, discovery of car keys in the refrigerator, and breakfast of Greek yoghurt and granola, Anthea crowed in triumph and texted Greg immediately.

She was thinking Johannesburg. She’d been meaning to brush up on her Afrikaans.

*********


	3. Chapter 3

*********

Greg hadn’t gone to work, though he’d deliberately dressed like that was his destination. Mycroft was too good at reading physical evidence. 

At some point, Mycroft was going to check his texts. He was going to realise that Greg had taken his phone. He was going to try to pick through the fog of his memory and have the tell-tale blankness of his personal memory-deletion process, something Greg was going to learn after this whole thing had blown over because right now, right this very moment, he was the only person in the world who knew what had happened last night and Mycroft had no memory of agreeing to forget it entirely.

He was hoping that the tequila was slowing him down, but then, Mycroft could will himself sober. Because he didn’t have enough superpowers already.

Greg, on the other hand, could not will himself sober, and had had enough tequila that even the events of last night couldn’t scare it straight out of his system. So he skulked into a coffee shop a few blocks away and got a mug and a muffin, preparing to hide out until--

A text. Mycroft. “Tell me what happened.”

Maybe he could get Sherlock to teach him the memory-deletion thing. But no; then he’d have to explain why he needed to know it. Or Sherlock would just read it in his expression, or read his mind; he could probably do that. Because he had superpowers, too. Damn the Holmes brothers, anyway.

Panic was not going to help him here. He tried to rein in his frantic thoughts by stuffing half the muffin in his mouth and chewing with great concentration. Think about the muffin. Focus on the muffin. Be one with the muffin.

Another text set his phone vibrating, and he checked it with great trepidation: Anthea. “Boss worried he upset you. Explain. -A” 

God help him, Mycroft was setting Anthea on him. “You said you loved me,” he muttered through the muffin, feeling mildly distraught. It was probably still the tequila speaking.

She’d been a safer bet than Sherlock, or a cab; Greg wasn’t sure that Mycroft was allowed to use cabs. But she knew that something had happened last night, and she didn’t treat Greg with the same deference she did her boss, and he’d once seen her use a machete as a letter opener.

He sent back, “I’m fine, not upset, will call M soon. -G”

He could feel someone staring at him, so he tried to surreptitiously check his collar, to make sure it was turned up and hiding the largest, darkest bruising he’d ever had on his neck, short of that strangulation attempt in an arrest six years ago. It was turned up, though, so--

“Are you all right, Sir?”

He looked up into Sally Donovan’s concerned eyes and almost spat muffin out onto her shoes.

*********


End file.
